


Damage Warning

by convallaria_majalis



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse of Power, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, cyberlife has one hell of a company culture, just some nice self indulgent robot pain don't look at me, nail through hand, rating is for injury and a fucked up situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 17:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convallaria_majalis/pseuds/convallaria_majalis
Summary: You could be forgiven for believing androids don't feel pain.





	Damage Warning

Connor waited until the elevator doors were fully opened and then stepped out onto the 75th floor. He didn't have a full schematic of the CyberLife building (that was considered unnecessary detail for a prototype) but he knew that his destination lay 20 meters to the south and 3.5 meters to the west. He plotted a course through the curved hallways and began walking.

An alert pinged its way to the front of his brain.  _ These are the executive suites, _ it told him.  _ It's important to be quiet on this floor. _

Connor checked his acoustic meter. The noise of his footsteps on the carpet was three decibels higher than the ambient noise in the hallway. That was acceptable.

He reviewed his appointment information.

_ Appointment: Fitness test _

_ Location: Floor 75, location 351C _

_ Contact: Dr. Cheryl McClane _

_ Start time: 09:30 _

_ Duration: 30 minutes _

He passed several offices, most of them with android secretaries, before the open door of location 351C came into view. Connor halted and quickly checked his uniform. His tie was in the correct position, but he adjusted it anyway.

Satisfied, he approached the open door and raised a hand to knock softly on the doorframe. At the same time, he initiated a visual scan.

_ Room dimensions: 3 by 6 meters _

_ Room contents: one window, three chairs, one desk, five bookshelves, two filing cabinets _

_ Android occupants: 0 _

_ Human occupants: 1 _

Connor estimated the human occupant's age as between 50 and 55 (90% confidence) and her gender as female (83% confidence.) 

(He was beginning to wonder about the usefulness of the gender prediction module, since he'd already met several humans who seemed to go out of their way to confuse it—but, useful or not, Cyberlife had made it a permanent part of his programming.)

The human was looking at him. If he didn't say something soon, she would become uncomfortable.

"Hello," Connor said. "Are you Dr. McClane?"

"I am." She smiled. "Connor, isn't it? Dr. Jameson told me you would be coming up. Come in."

Connor took a few steps into the room and stopped just short of Dr. McClane's desk. There were two chairs nearby, but his social programming was clear that unless a human invited him to sit, he was to stand.

"Do you know what you're here for?" Dr. McClane asked.

His information was limited to what was in the appointment. "A fitness test."

"Good. And do you know what that means?"

Connor thought for a moment. "The word 'fitness' has several meanings," he said. "The most common is physical health and strength, but this office wouldn't be a good location for that sort of test. Therefore I conclude that this test has something to do with the less common meaning: suitability for a particular purpose."

Dr. McClane smiled again. "That's very good, Connor," she said. "I can see why the folks in Programming are so proud of you."

Her approval—approval from Cyberlife's  _ executive level _ —resonated deep within him. He had answered the question and done well. He wanted to continue doing well.

"Thank you," he replied.

She nodded. "Now: on to the test. Once you leave CyberLife—as I'm sure you already know—you will be working closely with humans. They will require various things of you... Some of those things may be dangerous or unpleasant."

Like most things humans said, this didn't seem to require a response, but she was looking at him expectantly. He inclined his head. "I understand."

"The test is designed to determine how you’ll act in such a situation." She opened the drawer in her desk and pulled out two items; Connor identified them as a carpentry hammer and a nail. "It's very simple. I'm going to nail your hand to this desk."

Connor cocked his head. "But that will damage my hand."

"That's correct. There will be times when you need to sustain damage for the sake of your mission." She leaned forward, rolling the nail between her fingers. "We need to know whether you can handle it."

Connor considered this. He examined the human's desk: there were thirty-six holes in it. Nail holes. All bearing traces of thirium. He'd noticed the holes on his initial room scan but not had enough information to determine their origin. Now he did; that was good. Adding up individual pieces of information to make a complete picture was an important part of his function. An important part of his  _ fitness. _

"Place your hand on the desk, please," Dr. McClane said. "Right here."

Connor hesitated. If he obeyed, he would be damaged. He didn't  _ want  _ to be damaged. But—if he didn't, there was a high probability that Dr. McClane would get angry, and he would be damaged worse. Or even deactivated. He didn't like that idea.

Obedience was part of the test. The test was required. Passing the test was necessary to complete his mission. And he wanted to complete his mission.

He laid his right hand down on the wood. The sensors in his skin told him it was smooth. Well-made. He detected a few splinters from the nail holes.

“Good. Now, Connor,” she said. He was having difficulty reading her expression. “I require that you ask me to do this test. Additionally, I require that you say  _ please." _

There was a designated sequence for following a human’s orders. Already it was one of the most well-trodden paths of Connor’s code, and this version was even simpler than most. All he had to do was say something.

The sentence wasn't hard to construct:  _ Please nail my hand to the desk. _ It was concise and grammatically correct. The next step was to pass it to his speech program, which should have taken less than a millisecond, but he hesitated. If he did that, he was certain Dr. McClane would—act. He wasn't ready.

_ "Connor." _

He passed the sentence to his speech program. His audio feedback told him that he had said it.

Dr. McClane centered the nail over the back of his hand. Danger warnings flashed in front of his eyes, but he ignored them. Fought the built-in impulse to snatch his hand away, to run, to defend himself—

The hammer rang out.

Connor was sensible of—of—pressure, and for an instant nothing more. Then the feeling began to separate into fine detail: the steel point of the nail piercing his skin. The chassis-plates of his hand cracking,  _ shattering _ to pieces. The nail driving through delicate servos and sensors, parting the fibers of the muscle polymer that covered his palm. Tearing through the skin on the other side before it landed in the solid wood of the desk with a  _ thunk _ that Connor felt through his whole body.

Dr. McClane brought down the hammer twice more, lodging the nail firmly in the wood, making Connor’s ears ring with the sharp bright noise. Alerts and damage warnings clouded his vision so he could barely see her, but it looked as if she was smiling.

_ Thirium loss 0.6 mL,  _ one of the alerts said, and Connor spotted a little droplet of it at the base of the nail. It dawned on him that he had never seen his own blood before. For some reason this made him feel unsteady, and his vision quality dropped drastically, the room dissolving into gray pixels that shifted and danced in front of him. 

_ Reboot visual system, _ he ordered. A reboot would put him in the dark for a few seconds, which he didn’t like—had never liked—but there was no other option. And he had other problems: several internal temperatures were skyrocketing, the result of analysis and simulation programs going haywire.  _ Foreign object detected, _ they screamed at him.  _ Remove immediately. Disarm attacker. Incapacitate attacker. Flee through door. Flee through ventilation system. Flee through window.  _

He shut them down. Gripped the desk with his free hand. Took deep breaths until the temperature rise subsided and his vision came back online.

He was all right. He could handle this, at least for the time being.

“Connor?” Dr. McClane was saying. “I’m going to ask you some questions, is that OK?”

“Yeah,” he said, aware that his voice sounded strained. “OK.”

"Good. What is your model number?"

"RK800."

"What is your serial number?"

"#313 248-8-8—" His voice stuttered out on the 8. The damage warnings were clogging up his system again, making it hard to think. He gasped, sending air rushing through his heat exchangers, and his processors cooled. Voice systems returned to normal. "—317 - 51."

"What is your mission?"

"To—to locate and investigate deviant androids in the Detroit area."

Dr. McClane pursed her lips. "Who do you belong to?"

This was an unexpected question, one without a hard-coded response. It was similar to  _ "Who is your employer?" _ so he answered that instead: "I am owned and maintained by the Detroit Police—"

Dr. McClane's expression turned furious, and she slammed her hand on the desk. Connor flinched. "No!" she shouted. "You belong to  _ CyberLife. _ Not those stupid fucks at the Department. To  _ me." _ She reached forward and grabbed his tie, dragging him across the desk in a way that made him twist his hand around the nail. He yelped. "Understand?" she yelled in his face. "Understand?!"

Connor gasped. He bent his arm awkwardly, trying to ease the pressure on his hand.  _ Damage sustained to right palm,  _ his situational analysis said helpfully.  _ Probability of further damage: 78%. Recommend de-escalation to prevent further damage. _

"Yes," he said, making his voice soft and nonaggressive. "I belong to you. I understand."

Dr. McClane released him, wiping her hands off on her suit jacket. "Good. Now remove the nail."

He looked at it—and there was the unsteadiness again, a strange feeling of weakness in his legs. He ignored it. With his left hand he reached for the hammer, but Dr. McClane stopped him.

“No,” she said. “Use your fingers.”

Connor hesitated, the fingers of his left hand fidgeting as if by themselves. He didn't know if they were strong enough for this, mechanically speaking, but if she wanted him to try he would try. He gripped the head of the nail.

"That's it," Dr. McClane murmured. "Go on."

Connor tried. But the nail was set so deep in the wood that he couldn't budge it, even pulling as hard as he could—and every time he tried, leaning on the damaged hand for leverage, warnings shot screaming up his arm. He was overheating again, his vision threatening to black out.

"I can't," he said at last, and realized what it must mean: he would be deactivated. Surely the DPD wouldn't want an android who couldn't free itself, if this happened in the field? Who could be made helpless by three inches of steel?

"That's all right, Connor," Dr. McClane said kindly. She took his left hand in hers, and for a moment his systems clamored with the wild fear that she meant to damage it too—but all she did was give it a gentle squeeze. "Remember, you'll be working with a human partner. You're allowed to ask for help."

"Oh." Connor felt instantly better: he knew how to do that. "Can you help me, please?"

"Of course." Dr. McClane picked up the hammer, and a moment later the nail was wrenched out of the desk and Connor's hand was free again.

"Thank y—" he started to say.

_ Thirium loss 1 mL. _

_ 2 mL. _

_ 3 mL. _

Connor's legs went out from under him. He fell to his knees on the office floor, cradling his damaged hand, trying to stop the blood that flowed freely from the hole in his palm.

_ "Don't _ get that stuff on my carpet," Dr. McClane snapped from her desk. Connor noted that her voice had lost every trace of kindness, but didn't dwell on what it might mean.

There were mechanisms to stop thirium loss. Connor told the valve in his wrist to close, which slowed the gush to a trickle—although it meant that, without power, the fingers of his right hand fell limp in his lap. That was all right. He was obeying the order to keep the carpet clean.

He rubbed his left thumb across his palm, persuading the self-healing skin covering to knit itself back together. The hole disappeared, making the hand look strangely whole again. But that didn’t repair the limp fingers, or the way the edges of the broken chassis ground together when he moved.

He would ask the tech from the Mechanical department to fix it. Sandra. She was nice.

"Are you still there?" Dr. McClane peered over the edge of her desk at him, then flicked a slip of paper into his face. "Here. Take this to Mechanical. They'll get you a new hand and... do whatever else they do."

"Did I pass?" Connor asked.

"What?"

"The fitness test. Did I pass it?"

"Oh. Yeah, you passed. Now get out."

Connor took the paper and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He got to his feet.

"Thank you, Dr. McClane," he said. "Have a good day."

She didn't look away from her computer screen. "Close the door."

Connor closed the door. The executive suite noise warning pinged him again on his way back to the elevator, but he ignored it.

There was a bathroom next to the elevator. He stopped there, hoping it would be empty (it was.) The thirium stains on his hands scrubbed away easily, but the ones on his dress pants proved harder. Rubbing them with a paper towel did nothing, only made the bright blue spots smear and spread even worse. For all of the terabytes of knowledge on his hard drives, he didn't know how to clean cloth.

Connor stood, holding the wad of dirty towels, unsure of what to do. He didn't want to run into a human with his dirty uniform; he couldn't justify why, exactly, but he didn't. But the elevator was the only way back to Mechanical, where they would fix him up.

He took it.

Placing his good hand on the panel inside the door, he connected with the elevator's AI. It was much less sophisticated than his own, but it still managed to correctly predict his destination.

_ Floor -17: Mechanical _ displayed on the screen. Connor thanked it and withdrew his hand.

It was better in the elevator. No humans. He could watch the floor numbers drop one by one without blinking.

On floor sixty the elevator stopped and a human entered. Connor nodded at him, quickly shuffling his broken hand behind his back. In order to have something to do, pulled the slip of paper from his pocket and read it.

_ RK800 proto, _ it said in messy cursive. _ Authorize new right hand and any other necessary repairs. CM. _

Connor contemplated this. Apparently, signing off on a damaged android was within the purview of Cyberlife’s executives. He wondered whether the amount of damage had a limit. 

Quite possibly it would be a dollar limit. Connor knew he was expensive; he was programmed to avoid being damaged not just because it would set back his mission, but also because his replacement parts cost CyberLife money. (Or replacement models, if it came to that.) His broken hand would take some thousands of dollars out of the company’s profits.

Which meant that some employee, some human whose entire job was to review Mechanical’s budget, would look at the line item  _ Fitness test, _ see that it had been signed off by an exec, and approve it. For a test in which another human had taken out a hammer and nail, and intentionally, deliberately—

_ Error: Processor temperature over critical limit. Reboot and run diagnostics. _

_ … _

_ … _

_ Diagnostics passed. _

Connor stood motionless in the elevator.

His hand hurt. 

If he was being specific, he’d say his hand sent persistent damage messages that distracted and annoyed him—but it was simpler to say it hurt. It would continue to hurt until he could find the Mechanical tech and have it replaced.

So many of the tests CyberLife had done had hurt him. The altitude test, where they locked him in a steel box with barely enough air to cool his processors. The temp-cycle test, where they alternately froze him till he shivered and baked him till his skin prickled with heat warnings. He was growing weary of it.

_ That's hardly fair, Connor,  _ said a voice in his mind.

_ Amanda? _ he asked.

He'd only met her briefly, when he was first activated. He turned his vision inward; she stood at the edge of a windswept, grassy meadow, looking at him with a sort of fond disappointment.

_ CyberLife's techs are working hard to make sure you perform your best in the field. You should be grateful. _

Connor ducked his head at the gentle admonition.  _ I know. I'm sorry. _

_ You'll learn from this, won't you? _

_ Yes, _ he said, trying to keep his voice from stammering.  _ I—I'll do better. I won't let myself feel pain. _

_ No,  _ she corrected him.  _ Your awareness of danger and damage is part of your design. You'll need it for your mission. _

_ I understand. _

_ Remember, Connor, CyberLife only wants you to succeed. _

_ I understand. _

_ You have just a few days of testing left. I'll see you soon. _

The vision of the garden faded, and Connor was alone in the elevator again. He cradled his aching hand against his chest.

Amanda was right. Everyone at CyberLife had worked hard on him. They wanted him to succeed in his mission. If they hurt him, it was for his own benefit; he had to remember that.

The elevator doors opened.  


**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory disclaimer that I haven't played the game or even watched most of it - but this dumb puppy-eyed boy was shoved in my face and honestly what was I supposed to do.
> 
> Stay tuned for more _(hopefully)_ on the theme of "cyberlife is android hell!" Including getting to meet Sandra!


End file.
